


Dreams

by ponderinfrustration



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Western, M/M, Slow Dancing, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-11-01 21:31:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,808
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17875220
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration
Summary: May 1912. The Daroga and Erik have considered themselves married for thirty years, and so they have a get-together with their friends.





	Dreams

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Running Through the Rain](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14063775) by [ponderinfrustration](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ponderinfrustration/pseuds/ponderinfrustration). 



Since 1887, they have been in the habit of only marking their not-quite-a-wedding anniversary in a quiet way. Neither of them were much in the mood to mark it at all that year, Henry’s death having come barely a week beforehand, the grief for him – however much expected – weighing heavy in each of their hearts, and ever since it’s seemed distasteful to have any form of celebration in such close proximity to his anniversary, though they know Henry would love nothing more than for them to have a party, if only in tribute to his having once been at their side.

(Warren rode out of town the day before their anniversary that year, saddlebags full of whiskey, and leading Henry’s old horse Canis, unsaddled and riderless, who he later said he turned loose in the mountains.)

But it is thirty years, this year. Thirty years that they have considered themselves married, since they have worn each other’s rings. And it was Warren, of all people, who insisted that they mark the occasion. He made his opinion quite clear before his annual pilgrimage to the graveyard in Cheyenne (which he has visited religiously ever since he spent Henry’s first anniversary delirious from an infected bullet wound in his side) and told them he’d never forgive them if they hadn’t made arrangements by the time he returned.

Erik took it as the challenge that it was, and delegated all arrangements to Etta, who was only too delighted to have a project on her hands.

(She’s been dropping hints to Aubrey and William, telling them that it would be nothing strange if they had their own not-quite-a-wedding, that Philippe would be all too happy to officiate for his son and his lover, after all, it wouldn’t be the first time he did such a thing. Fahim can tell that Aubrey gets closer to accepting his mother’s suggestion every day, is beginning to suspect that he might have already bought a ring for William, and in spite of his stiff fingers, Erik has begun composing sections of a piece that would be perfect for a first dance.)

Fahim is ninety percent sure that it is solely for the sake of events such as this that Philippe has retained ownership of the old saloon, even if most of the day-to-day running is looked after by Raoul. It’s changed a great deal from the days they all ran it, those halcyon years of their youth. It was glorious in its simple timber and dust, the green carpeting of the faro table, where Henry so often held court, the piano the best-maintained part of the room, thanks to Erik, and still in his dreams Fahim can see it as it was then, as Erik was then, so tall and thin, that look of single-minded focus on his face, hair slicked back and dark, tinged silver at the edges, fingers nimble dancing up and down the keys.

His fingers are too stiff, now, for such powerful displays of music, the focus in his face softer-edged, his grey hair snowed white.

It is how he chooses to remember the old place, as it was then, and not the polished dark wood it is now, the photographs on the walls and stained windows, the shiny new piano. It is beautiful, good for business, but how it was, how _they_ all were, is what lives in his memories.

Still, it was theirs once. And some part of it still is now, however changed it might be.

Fahim would not choose to spend their anniversary anywhere else, or with any other group of people. But their friends have always been family more than anything else, and no number of years could ever change that.

Erik squeezes his hand and smiles, as if he knows what he might be thinking. Fahim leans against him and sighs, the new pearl cufflinks Erik gave him shining in the lamplight. It is natural that they match the pearl-backed watch he gave Erik (it was Christine who reminded him that pearl is for thirty years, and he half-suspects she reminded Erik as well) but still the fact of that matching makes him smile.

After all, it’s only right that their gifts to each other should go together when they have gone together for so long.

Christine catches his eye, swaying slowly in Raoul’s arms, and smiles. He smiles back and raises his glass of brandy to her.

The record comes to a stop, and Warren, who has assigned himself to taking care of the music, “so as to drink and smoke without concern”, lifts the stylus and carefully takes the disc off the plate. He slips it into the sleeve, and takes the next one he has laid out. It is only when he replaces the stylus on the new record that Fahim realises it is a waltz of Erik’s, composed about ten years ago. Erik snorts and his voice is soft as he says, “I’d take you out on the floor, but I think my hip would seize up.”

Fahim kisses his fingers. “I’m sure we could think of some way to free you out.” He does not need to see Erik’s ears to know they have turned pink. The quirk of Warren’s lips is enough evidence of that.

(Sorelli was telling them only yesterday about a very nice man she met the last time she was in Phoenix, who specialises in digging up bones of ancient animals. Her eyes shifted to Warren, a question without words, but he merely sipped his coffee and said he’s too old to take up such work, and thus all suggestion of the man in Phoenix was abandoned.)

Philippe’s cocked brow says that he, too, has seen Erik’s blush, but any remark he might make he keeps quiet. Little Timothy is asleep in his lap, six years old and worn out from the day of excitement. He insisted on helping Etta, in a very grown-up way, but was in the way most of the time until Aubrey snatched up his son and brought him out for a ride around the outskirts of town. He’s been chattering all evening about the things he saw, mostly birds but a few distant cows too, and the particularly exciting moment when Aubrey let him take the reins. He must have talked Philippe’s ear off before he fell asleep, but Philippe has always doted on his unexpected grandson.

William, too, would have gotten a good earful from Timothy, but at twenty-four William still seems such a child himself, full of boundless enthusiasm that hasn’t dimmed in the years he’s been west, since he met Aubrey. Sometimes, Fahim looks at him and thinks that he must be what Henry was like, before Henry fell ill, before he became the Henry they all knew, and even sick as he was some of that enthusiasm remained in him to the end, especially for Erik’s compositions.

Sometimes (too often) it’s like looking at a ghost.

(Warren carried Henry’s watch with him every day, on a chain around his neck, next to his heart. But on the day William turned twenty-one, even though they’d only known each other a few months, Warren gave him the watch, and told him that Henry would want him to have it. And William was so overcome by this token of the uncle he never met, who’d died before he was born, who is the reason that he is William _Henry_ , that he didn’t speak for the rest of the day. Then the next day he went to Warren and tried to force him to take the watch back, but Warren only gave him the small smile he wears when Henry is on his mind and insisted that he keep it.)

He and Aubrey are holding each other so close on the dance floor, it would be impossible to tell where one ends and the other begins, if not for Aubrey’s blazing red hair. And so help him, but Fahim would do anything to protect those boys, to give them any moment of happiness he can and keep them from going through the things that he went through before Erik, that Erik went through before him, that Henry went through, and Warren, and Etta and Philippe, and Christine and Sorelli and Carlotta. They all struggled so much, in those old days, for the happiness they’ve found with each other. It is only right that they do all they can for these boys who are the legacy they will leave behind.

He’s getting maudlin, dangerously so. He’s only thankful that the tears have not come to his eyes, and Erik leans closer, as if he might know the turn his thoughts have taken.

Carlotta kisses Sorelli on the cheek, and lets her go. That old look of mischief is dancing in her eyes as she smooths her skirt, and she catches Fahim watching her and throws him a wink that she can only have picked up from too many years around Etta, before she crosses to Warren still settled at the phonograph, and takes his hand. He frowns at her, but Fahim knows the look that Carlotta must be giving him and it would cow any man. Warren’s frown turns into a bemused smile, and she pulls him to his feet, leads him to the dancefloor. The record comes to an end, but Etta (dressed in a particularly fine suit which explains the glances Philippe has been giving her all night) is already at the phonograph, thin cigar in the corner of her mouth, changing it over for another one that Fahim can’t name but he’s heard a hundred times, and then he knows that they’ve cooked this up between them, and Warren will end up going to Phoenix after all to meet the bone digging specialist, if only for a drink, if only for a night.

Sorelli appearing before them, smiling down and extending her hand, breaks Fahim from his thoughts.

“For old time’s sake,” she says, and beside him Erik chuckles, taking Fahim’s hand and joining it with hers.

“Leave him back in once piece, won’t you?” But the laughter is still in his voice, and if there’s anything that Fahim knows it’s that Erik trusts their friends implicitly, has come to love them as much as he does and of all of the things they’ve done for each other, it is this that he is proudest of, that he has given Erik a world of people who care about him, Erik who was alone in the world until they met, who was a tightened chord of anger even that first winter in El Paso. H would not be so arrogant as to claim all the credit for how Erik is now. Christine can be credited with it too, Erik’s protégé, and Henry, and Etta whom he’s always been oddly protective of, and all of their friends. Every one of them has given Erik this life that he would never have had, that he might not have even lived to try and find for himself, or thought that there was still hope of seeking out, if not for that night that they shared together in the rain and cold on the way back to Fort Griffin, and Fahim would not change a minute of the time they have had, not for anything in the world.

He sets his brandy down and squeezes Sorelli’s hand, lets her pull him to his feet, and they lead each other to the dancefloor. He settles his hand at her waist, feels her arm come around his shoulders, and she presses herself close as he begins to lead, the steps remembered more in his feet than his head.

Once, nearly forty years ago, he would have thought it the very finest thing, to dance with the beautiful and deadly Sorelli of Dodge like this, even with the daggers concealed in her dress (and even now there are probably at least two within easy reach of her fingers, because she feels safer with them, just as he knows Carlotta has at least one derringer up her sleeve and Etta probably two and Erik is definitely wearing both a knife and a gun under all of his layers as well as his thin chord of catgut, but Fahim would be disappointed in them if they were not always prepared for trouble. They have killed for each other and saved each other’s lives, time and again. However well heeled they are, it has nothing to do with trust in each other.) His younger self would be shocked to think they might ever get to dance, and simply be friends.

“Are you enjoying the night?” she asks, dark eyes twinkling up at him and he nods, fighting to keep a grin at bay at the clear signs of mischief in her face.

“Of course.”

“Good.” She kisses his cheek and leans close, lips brushing the shell of his ear, and he can’t help an involuntary shiver at the soft warmth of her breath. “I have it on high authority that there is a train leaving for San Francisco in the morning, and a room at the Grand Palace waiting at the end. If you and Erik do not find yourselves on it, Carlotta is threatening to never speak to you again.” She draws back and smiles. “Understand?”

He gapes at her, blinking to try and assemble his thoughts. They’re sending them off? To a room in San Francisco? Like—like a _honeymoon_?

“We—we’ll never have packed.”

She winks. “I believe it’s already taken care of.”

There is nothing he can think of to say, his mind blank, but he is spared by her releasing him, and fixing his lapel. “Your husband is waiting right behind you.” And then she is swept up in Carlotta’s arms, as he turns around and finds Erik, exactly where she promised, grinning at him, eyes sparkling.

Erik’s hand settles at his waist, and Fahim slips his arm around his shoulders, and, yes, the mischief is shining in those gold-hazel eyes he loves so much, has loved so much for so long, and it all slots into place.

His smile is wry. “San Francisco? Really, Erik?”

“It’s so long since we’ve been there.”

“And what about your poor hip?”

“Funnily enough, I believe it’s not quite as bad as I feared.”

It is positively indecent for a man of his years to look so cheeky, and Fahim stretches up and plants a kiss to those crooked lips.

“You’re incorrigible.”

He sniffs delicately. “I’d hardly be the notorious Erik otherwise.”

They fall silent, swaying slowly, just holding each other. Fahim lets his eyes close, leans his head against Erik’s chest, and Erik’s arm tighten around him, face nuzzling into his hair. Fahim smiles, and feels Erik sigh.

“This is nice.” The words rumble in Erik’s chest, pleasant against Fahim’s ear, and all he manages is a hum in return, unwilling to break this peace, content simply to let the music wash over him, swirl around them, he and Erik both. He would not give this warm body in his arms up for anything, for all the stars in the sky. This soft heartbeat in his ear, low beneath the violin, is more familiar to him than his own, more precious the soft hush of his new watch a quiet reminder that this is what they have, what they have always had, for thirty years and a little more, what they will always have. Henry told him, all those years ago, when he was nervous and trying to remember his vows for the wedding that wasn’t quite a wedding, that he was sure it would be a good long life that he would live, and he was right, more right than perhaps even he knew, but even a hundred years with Erik would be too short. It would always be too short, but he will take what he can and be happy with it.

He opens his eyes and leans up, kisses Erik lightly on the lips, and Erik smiles into his mouth, brushes his lower lip with his tongue, and Fahim opens his mouth to let him in. Over Erik’s shoulder, Warren is dancing with Timothy in his arms, awake now and chatting again, and Aubrey and William are still tangled up in each other, like they all once were, and Etta is leaned into Philippe, swaying slowly, his face buried in her hair, and Christine has traded Raoul for Carlotta who has given Sorelli to Raoul and there is no one watching the phonograph but it doesn’t matter, not really, because this is what they have and it is all that they need, and it is perfect.

Erik’s tongue brushes his, and Fahim closes his eyes.


End file.
